Blue Hour
by NinnyTreetops
Summary: Seven and a half months after Enrique's departure to Spain – though more dramatic parties involved would claim it's been more like a year. At the halfway point of their separation, Dok Mi goes to Madrid. As we are dealing in the wonderland of time jumps here, this is equal amounts missing moment and post-series, really.
1. Chapter 1

AN: My special and warmest thanks to my two main betas, mswyrr and Halfaslug for their great help and assistance, and a tip of the hat to the whole meta squad over on tumblr. You know who you are (to know of the meta squad is to be of the meta squad) and I thank you kindly and apologise profusely for never. shutting. up. about this. And for the random paragraphs I pelted you with. This is a group effort, really.

Disclaimer: Not mine, never was, never will be. No monetary value gained from this. Just... feels.

* * *

**_The blue hour is the period of twilight each morning and evening where there is neither full daylight nor complete darkness. The time is considered special because of the quality of the light._**

Go Dok Mi takes stock: water bottle to her right, novel to her left, phone in her lap, heart in her throat, stomach somewhere in the vicinity of her kidneys. Cushy and comfortingly solid as the business class seat might be, she remains unable to imbibe just how hundreds of tons of steal would lift themselves into the air. Understand, yes. Embrace – not quite. Remembering the impossibly long row of lit windows she saw vanishing into the dark outside the gate, she takes a measured breath, adjusts her headphones and unpauses her phone.

_Waheeeeeeyyyyy, you're back. Good, great, brilliant. Something tells me you haven't taken off, yet. Can't blame you, I wouldn't want to spend too much time outside my devastatingly charming company, either, but then again I'm me, so I don't have to. Now, I'm sorry to tell you that you'll have to switch me off for a bit – for some reason they frown on any electronic devices being used during take-off; if you look around, there's probably an air hostess who's got your number already. Got her? Good. Keep an eye on her. I've put a chapter split into this - that is I will put a chapter split in, but you know what I mean, so just skip ahead to chapter 2 when you switch your phone back on, but before you go, a few words on flying: bazillions of people do it every day and there is absolutely nothing that could happen to you, because I'm thinking of you. I am not sure how exactly that relates to thermo- and aerodynamics, but I'm certain it does. Right now, as you hear my powerful words of comfort, it is something like four in the afternoon in Madrid and I'm likely pretending to pay attention to dailies at work, but mostly thinking of tomorrow, which means I'm thinking of you. It's pretty much the law in my brain. I'll be right back._

She reluctantly plucks the headphones off her ears, prompting the stewardess to give her an approving nod.

* * *

He had deposited the file into their drop box around noon that day – the middle of the night in Spain – labelled "travel companion". Opening it had carried his voice into the nooks and crannies of her apartment:

_Ahjumma! I had this great idea. No, seriously, this is brilliant. So, I've been thinking about how awful it is you have to travel on your own and how awful I've felt when I had to travel on my own a year ago_

It hasn't been a year.

_though that was a bit different because I was going away and you are coming here and I was entirely very not good and I don't think I ever told you but there you go_

The day he'd left, she'd run into Dong Hoon in the lift on her way home from the airport. Ten minutes later, he'd knocked on her door.

"Uhm, Jin Rak isn't home but I am and... I'll be in all day, if you want to come over, that is. So, yeah." With that, he'd shoved a thermos at her mumbled "I make pretty good tea." sketched a bow and went back to their apartment. She hadn't gone over, but the tea_had been_ pretty good, and she had told him so when she'd returned the thermos the next morning.

_So I didn't like you having to do it on your own and then I realized you didn't have to! Or, at least we can pretend you don't: I've recorded 19 hours of fun and conversation and heart rending readings and frankly sage-like wisdom and basically this is your Pocket-Que-geum. Demi-Que-geum. Que-geum's Guide to the Galaxy. Jimminy Que-geum! See, this way I'm with you all the way and you're not alone and also you'll be here tomorrow. Tomorrow, Ahjumma! I…_

She'd jumped a bit when his rambling was cut off by the noise of a slamming door and quick-fire ranting in Spanish. She distinctly heard her name dropped a few times, before the unknown male voice scoffed, the door slammed again, and Enrique returned, whispering.

_I'm sorry, that was Alvaro, remember him? I woke him… again… Dok Mi, I'll see you soon. So soon. Not soon enough. 31 hours. 30 1/2 if I can out-sleuth airport security. Maybe I should start researching that… Nah, I can probably pull it off on the fly. Oh, and one more thing: please bring a set of ear plugs alongside your headphones. Okay. Bye. _

_Bye. _

_Soon._

* * *

As she leans back into the upholstered seat and the plane begins rolling along the tarmac, she shuts her eyes and tries not to pay attention to the unfamiliar mechanical clicks and whirrs. The engines fire up, and she clenches her hands tightly around her phone, working to maintain a rational grasp on the idea of riding four controlled continuous explosions inside a 180 ton steel rod carrying 120 tons of cargo, both human and inanimate, sizzling away atop galleons and galleons of highly flammable pressurised liquid - maybe there is such a thing as too much research, after all. Watching the lights of Seoul drop off into the pinpricks of a model city full of tiny people underneath her, she relaxes into the experience as the sensation of g force abates. Her fingers unclench, leaving sweaty red impressions where her digits have tangled around the headphone cord. The young business traveller seated next to her shoots hear a toothy grin and starts leaning over.

"First time flyer, eh?"

She gives him a tight lipped smile and a curt nod while slipping the headphones back on, arching a sardonic eyebrow after he's faced away from her fully. Once the view has fallen away into darkness and a hazy cloud cover, she turns her attention to the buckle-up sign, thumb twitching over the "play" button on her phone as the plane rattles through denser clouds. After thirty minutes and two silent head shakes at her neighbour - "No, I neither want nor need you to order anything for me from the crew. And, no, I'm not very talkative.", the lights come off. Her neighbour unbuckles, and Dok Mi ostensively hits play, and is immediately treated to a cacophony of noise - prattling voices, automated messages and a distant rattling. Then, Enrique's voice sounds amongst the scuffle.

_Safe and sound above the clouds? Good. I hope you're not mad at me for upgrading your ticket, but I wanted you to be comfy and I made sure you'd have the good seat far away from the toilets. However, just in case you are feeling patronised, I feel like it would be very helpful for both of us to inform you that I am, right at this moment, participating in Madrid's Pantsless on the Metro Day, which is exactly what it sounds like: I'm on my way to work. On the Metro. In my delicates. Now, if you can find it in your heart to be angry at that mental image, be my_ gue...

A high hysteric screech rips through the recording at that point, whipping the soft smile off her face, to be replaced with bemusement when Enrique's manic laughter rings, on and on until finally he re-emerges, wheezing.

_Ahjumma, I don't think that Señora was aware of Pantsless Day_. _Yet. By the way, they're boxer briefs. The Zelda print ones. Just so you know. My train's here._

A stewardess walks past, looks at her face and asks whether she might want a cool beverage. Hands pressed to her cheeks, she declines.

* * *

Finding a therapist she actually wanted to speak to hadn't been an easy feat. The sort of authoritative aura the one she had had, briefly, during high school, was not something she wanted to expose herself to several times a week. Her gut told her to look for a female therapist, so she did, but when the first one had homed in on what she'd called the "retardation of your sexual development" within 20 minutes and suggested medication within 35, that relationship ended in a night's pencil sharpening and a two week hiatus on pursuing therapy. She'd been able to relax into Dr Kwon's practice when the only answer to her reluctant admittance that she just did not like most people had been to lean back, regard her over the top of her glasses and then level "Of course you don't, Go Dok Mi. Most people are bastards." Kwon's demeanour around her was straight in every regard, from the directness of her questions, to the ease with which she shared her own opinions and the lack of technical jargon and empty consolations ("So, I am going to take down in my notes that your parents are complete failures, shall I?"). It was in a similar vein that Dr Kwon opened their fourth session by saying: "Let's go for the Freudian bit today, shall we? How's your sex life?"

After about 20 seconds of deadpan staring on Dok Mi's end, Dr Kwon had relented. "Alright, I gave myself about a 50% chance of that actually working. Look: we've established that you need only tell me what you want to tell me, because if it were any different I might as well vacate this office. And I'm not looking to unlock all your issues by means of a phallus, because: please. But, and I'm speaking very frankly, I feel it is important we talk about this in an emotional context for you. Now, I have my presumptions, from what you've shared about your teen years and the transformative relationship that brought you to my office in the first place; but I'd like you to tell me yourself whether you've… sampled the menu, if you will. With your current partner or otherwise. Just for future reference, alright? Whenever you're ready"

Next session, before she'd even taken off her coat or sat down, Dok Mi just got it over with. "No otherwise. And we've, uhm, ha-had the main course, though we haven't… been for dinner a lot, and I wouldn't say we've been through the entire menu." Kwon had taken a moment to get her bearings and make the connection, before realisation settled over her features.

"Alright. Thank you. Please get comfortable", she'd smiled calmly.

However, Dok Mi had remained standing.

"He's also very devoted to dessert.", she'd blurted out, much to her own shock.

Kwon's eyebrows had risen to previously unknown heights. "Right. More information than I was originally looking for, but thanks for sharing."

Dok Mi, horrified, had covered her face with her hands. "I have no idea why I've felt the need to mention that." She'd groaned trough her fingers.

"Aha, I have a theory on that. But you'll have to sit down to get your healthcare's worth."

Dok Mi had trudged to her chair and plopped down.

"Oh and just for the record. Well: off the record: Congratulations."

* * *

He'd checked the entertainment listings for her airline and discovered they were running UP, sending him off on a rant about its greatness, and so they watch it together, a single earplug connecting her to his voice on her phone underneath her headphones that are now plugged into the entertainment system. ( _Ahjumma, we need an adventure book.)_

He jabbers on colour-coding and shapes assigned to characters (_Carl is square and Ellie is round and everything is perfect!_). The little boy comes knocking at Mr Fredericksen's door, and he dissolves into giggles (Look, _I'm sorry, but this feels toooooo familiar_.) – she shoots the window a sneer before she remembers he's not actually sitting next to her.

The credits roll. His voice is gravelly.

_Are you still there? Wouldn't blame you if you weren't - it's at least four in the morning for you right now. Try and sleep. The on-board socks look flimsy but are actually suuuuuper cozy; pro tip. I'll be over in chapter three whenever you want me. Sleep well. I love you very, very much_.

And so she does.

For a grand total of 20 minutes. After some futile repositioning, she switches on her personal light, making a stab at her novel. Considering 11 pages a valiant attempt at this juncture, she returns to chapter three. With "The Little Prince – the extended Enrique Geum every-tangent-must-be-pursued edition" for company (_Did you know London has a "fox problem" – I think that is only the right term if you have a problem with greatness._), she quietly orders a mint tea and waits for the plane to catch back up with the sun. He reads and deviates for over six hours, and after that, he tells her stories of his teen years – of Alvaro, his room mate, who had grown from chubby kid to gigantic teen within the span of a summer (_He outgrew my bottom bunk!_) and insisted on dragging him out of his room, or else sacrifice parties and camping trips t_o sit on a bean bag in my room to drink Jolt Cola and play Command an Conquer for 48 hrs straight_. _I would tell him he should be with his friends and he would say "I am, assmunch." – his word, not mine_. How he didn't understand then why his magically transformed friend preferred being with him to going on rowing trips with the other members of the lacrosse team. _I'm not sure I understand it even now. He's a good guy._ He mumbles. Dok Mi just shakes her head.

* * *

Morning breaks, and things have deteriorated somewhat in the name of killing time, though if anyone can sell "Dragonball: a dramatic reading", it's probably him.

_Aaaand we're still in the middle of the confrontation with Cell, who wants to destroy the earth because it's what you do in this book. You'll be surprised to learn that our hero and villain are still staring each other down. That makes 16 pages of staring. Can you believe I had POSTERS of this and everything as a kid? Aiiiissshhh. Staring. Staring. OH, dialogue panel! „I will crush you." Nope, never mind. Empty threat panel._

* * *

_Chapter 4: Layover in Amsterdam! Welcome to Europe. You'll love it. Good luck with customs, though I can't think of a reason why they would give you a hard time. Just look the first officer you come across in the eyes and they'll probably carry you through the international terminal on their backs. Well, you should still concentrate, so I'll keep quiet and give you some 80ies punk rock to get you pumped and energised and shield-y, okay? Get a warm Belgian waffle! They're grrrrreat._

* * *

_Chapter 5! Our final chapter!_ _You're about 2 hours away from Madrid now, which is a good thing because I think I am going crazy and I cannot wait and did I ever tell you that the birds in Madrid sing at their loudest around 3 in the morning, which I read somewhere is something they do in all the big cities everywhere, because that's when it's the quietest and so it's the only time their mates can hear them, even though they try all day, singing louder and louder and do you think birds grow hoarse and that is really kind of sad, and also kind of awesome, because they've simply found a way around millions of noisy humans and Ahjumma it's been a yeeeeeaaaarrr… _

That is being a bit dramatic. It has been only 7 months, 19 days, 3 hours and 27 vividly remembered and rather excruciating heartbeats since the air hostesses (three of them) had cajoled him onto the plane and out of her sight. (13 times Watanabe had dropped food from work at her door, 8 scripts edited and taken to print, 34 sessions with Dr Kwon, 1 time Dong Hoon had shoved Jin Rak in front of her apartment and told him to "get over himself", 3 visits to her Grandmother's grave, 14 cooking classes, and 2 after-work drinks - one of which surreal ) But who's counting?

The tape swings in increasingly random directions after that. He takes her on a walk around his neighbourhood at four in the morning_: I never realised they started baking this early in the day... and cinnamon buns, no less. Ahjumma, I have to get a whole cartwheel of these for us to have at breakfast, they're SO good. OH! And Nutella. Remind me to get Nutella. Do you like Nutella? Silly question – it's Nutella._

Ducks out of a meeting: _This. Is. The. Worst._

While the plane taxis, without any context, his voice a flat echo amongst the clicking of a single pair of soles on tiles, the muffled noise of diners in the background:_Which do you like best? I can't wait for you to be here, I'm dying for you to get here, I miss you – very very much._

* * *

By the time she walks down the gangway and towards luggage collection, he's cheerfully narrating through grocery shopping and cooking dinner; the arcane secrets of flipping the perfect pancake, how to fold in apples without burning or breaking the dough, and why dessert for dinner strikes him as a wonderful invention. He breaks off, she picks up the sizzling of fat in the pan, the whirr of the extractor fan, nothing but background noise for 20 seconds. A breath let out slowly, then, quietly:

_Are you there, yet?_

Her chest clenches and she frowns at her feet.

_How about now?_

She presses the heel of her hand against tired eyes just as the luggage conveyor belt shudders into motion, drawing her taut attention. By the time her leather duffle swivels into view, she has to push her way through a crowd of four deep to retrieve it. The hours of sitting and her lack of sleep have robbed her legs of considerable amounts of strength, and it takes two attempts to sling the strap over her head and across her chest.

She checks her reflection in the display window of a passing vending machine, snorts at herself for being silly, and then stops in her tracks and doubles back to duck into the restroom, where she needlessly adjusts her scarf, futily splashes water onto her ashen face, haphazardly re-ties her ponytail after a brief experiment with shaking life into her limp hair and concludes the ritual by groaning and placing her forehead on the counter. Hopeless.

* * *

The last time they've seen each other – the last time they've skyped – was two nights before her flight. She had brought home pre-press proofs that needed revising before she left and was working late, he was editing boards – leaving their video channel open had become somewhat of a habit. After he'd left for a story meeting, the next thing she knew, she was jerked awake by his insistent voice ringing out with the grating regularity of an alarm.

"Dok Mi. Dok Mi. Dok Mi. Dok Mi."

Blearily, she lifted her head to the tell-tale sound file of a camera shutter. Noticing a pair of post-it's stuck to her cheek, she frowned, which caused a paper clip to tumble off from where it had clung to her forehead.

"Did you just take a photo?" she demanded, voice heavy with sleep, squinting.

"What? Of course not." his expression of indignation quickly surrendered to one of smug satisfaction. "I took a screenshot. Much better image quality, see?". He presented his phone to the web cam with a flourish, newly improved with a wallpaper of her sporting office supplies.

She snorted and leant back in her chair, stretching her neck and rubbing her face. "Wonderful."

"I_do_ like to think so, yes. Ahjumma?"

She returned her gaze to the screen, eyebrows raised.

"Hm?"

He'd leaned his forearms onto his desk, scooting up close to the camera, his voice dropped to its lower register: "Go to bed?"

She considered the pages left to proof. Birdsong crept in through her cracked window.

"Yes. Probably. Long day tomorrow."

"Long_last_day._Day at long last._" he smiled, hips swiveling from side to side in his chair, eyebrows waggling, clearly immensely proud of himself for being puntastic.

Absurdly, her fingers reached out to brush against the screen. She smiled back.

"Yeah."

"Well, off you go! Sleep well. I love you very, very much."

* * *

She gives up on primping. However, she puts considerable force into scrubbing her forehead after lifting herself off the wash-up counter, turning it a subtle shade of red.

The hallway leading up to the terminal exit is simultaneously far too long and altogether not long enough. She feels completely swept blank by 19 hours of conditioned air. Spread too thin between border control officers and chatty travellers. Whittled smooth by 7 1/2 months of separation. The shoulder strap of her satchel cuts into her muscles and against all reason, as usual, she feels terrified. Their mp3 has run out but she appreciates the barrier the headphones create, so they stay on. The double doors into the airport atrium come into view, walled in on either side by another ten metres or so of security glass reaching out into the vast hall. And, right there, right next to the doors, at the other side of the thick pane, elbows resting on a handrail, head down, back curved, shoulders tense, left foot jiggling, fingers drumming against the glass like hummingbirds; Que-geum. And her stiff shoulders settle, and her anxious heartbeat becomes an excited flutter and the now familiar sensation of overwhelming tenderness washes through her stomach and makes her own fingertips trill and it has been _a year_. Her pace picks up and he lifts his head and he looks swept blank and spread too thin and anxious and ashen faced and all of that only serves to set off the brilliant, massive grin that spreads across his face from the left corner of his mouth to do away with smooth and he scrambles up, hands still on the handrail, and starts towards her, slamming his forehead right into 50mm bullet proof glass.

„Aissshhhh, tonto!"

He snaps back, rubbing his nose, grin reduced to a bashful smile as she stops level with him, hand brushing up against the glass

„Nonono." He shouts, the sound muffled by the barrier and her headphones. With sweeping gestures, he motions her along the security aisle. She hesitates, but already he's started weaving through the crowds waiting alongside the glass panes. Four steps ahead, he turns, takes a deliberate breath and slows his pace, beaming back at her until she catches up, and then the two of them walk along their respective sides of the split aisle, him backwards. And she makes it to the swing gate, and through it, and he stops in his tracks and there he is there he is there he is...

The shadows under his eyes are dark, his hair looks thoroughly raked, and his forehead is beginning to redden from its impact with the barrier. Hands in the pockets of his trousers, rooted to the spot, he stares, and beams, and fidgets. She takes the final half-step that brings them face to face, he sways towards her. His hair is shorter at the sides, and she remembers the morning of his departure; how she'd been unable to stop running her fingers through the spot above his ear while they'd sat, at times reclined, toes hooking behind heels, fingers trailing around wrists, noses brushing against temples. (_„I can cancel. I should just cancel. I'll call and cancel."_ – _„No."_) The dimple in his left cheek is working overtime, being pushed this way and that as he tries and fails to come up with a compromise between smiling and speaking. Teeth clasping on his lower lip, with steady hands, he reaches out, plucks the headphones off her ears and dangles them around his own neck. The cord beckons him a toe length closer.

„H...", he swallows. „Hi."

His hands extend once more, hers reach up to mirror him, but instead of embracing her, they settle for hovering either side of her head.

"You're back to 3D", he marvels, and her face crumbles. In an instant she has his hands covered with hers, laying them flat across her cheeks. She can feel the trill in his fingertips at her temples. His eyes stop darting all over her face and catch hers. She notices his shoulders levelling, tension seeping away. His fingertips creep on into her hairline.

„Hi," he breathes again.

„Hi," she beams back. Another passenger brushes past, jostling them both. Que-geum's eyes dart after them for a second, looking positively put out. She tightens her grip on his hands and taps his foot lightly with hers to get his attention back.

"When's the last time you slept?' she asks.

As usual, he dismisses her concern.

"Oh, here and there. Plus, I've had 5 coffees today. Biiiiig ones. You're there._You're here._You're here…" he leans in to rest his forehead against hers.

„Hi.", a third time.

He draws back, angles her head, and slowly, deliberately presses a kiss to the birthmark under her eyebrow. She frowns affectionately. "Really?"

He fixes her with earnest, red eyes.

„Ahjumma, there are no words fancy enough to tell you how much I've missed this spot." he insists.

She pushes up on her toes to obey a pull from just behind her sternum. However, he has already taken half a step back, dragged her satchel off her shoulders and slung it across his, and now stands next to her, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

„Now, Space Ranger Go.", he intones with a military clip to his voice. „Our immediate mission aim is to get you, unharmed, to the transport pods that await through yonder air locks.". With stiff wrists, he indicates the airport exit some 50 metres away. „So that you may rest your travel weary head at mission base." He shoots her a shifty squint. „As you can see, the immediate area is swarming with... shreks. Shreks is a good term, I like „shreks". They are a threat to our lifestyle and everything we love, so whilst we must clear the area quickly, we must take care not to touch them. Briefing received?"

She blames jet-lag and exhaustion for what happens next.

Staring straight ahead, she gives a sharp nod.

„Permission to speak, Commander?" she asks. Que-geum bristles excitedly before re-arranging his face into a sombre mask.

„Permission granted."

„Two observations: At current threat levels, I consider it advisable to stay close together.", in so saying, she extends her right hand and slides her palm slowly down the inside length of his bare forearm, starting just under the rolled-up shirt sleeves below the crook of his elbow, before weaving her fingers through his. Delighted, he returns her grip and funnels excess energy into swinging their joint hands back and forth, craning his neck to get a good look from all angles.

„Secondly: we mustn't step on the cracks, for they present rifts in the time-space continuum." Casting a furtive glance to the side, she sees him gape at her like she's materialised into being right before his eyes, and can't help but smirk back, eyebrows hitched.

„Oh, Ranger," Que-geum breathes. „you've just saved us all." Eyes back facing front and centre, he starts jogging floppily in place. „Okay, here we go?"

She affirms. "Here we go."

And so they go.

* * *

In the Taxi, he scoots up, almost but not quite touching her side. As Madrid drifts past in sluggish bursts of traffic outside the window to her left, Que-geum points out sights both well- and lesser known: The cathedral, the road leading down to the palace, the Goya Museum, the fountain he emptied himself into after too much sangria at 14 ("I almost fell in on the third heave, too. I remember because I had to grab that angel's sandal not to. And I was definitely crying."). His babbling is punctuated by his frantically jiggling leg, the nervous tonus reporting through the car's floor to the soles of her feet.

"Which do you like best:", she interrupts him. Turning to catch the tail end of his slow blink, she holds his gaze and enunciates slowly "I am glad to be here. I am ecstatic to be here. I am indescribably happy to be here. I quite actually cannot tell you how exhilarated I am to be here."

The smile starts in his eyes and ripples through the rest of his body from there, shoulders twisting ever so slightly in her direction, hands relaxing from where they had been suspended mid-gesture to rest across his thighs, back easing – and he slumps towards her gradually, pressing his nose into the side of her head.

"I can't believe you're here.", he breathes.

She leans into him by a fraction.

"I can tell." Then, mindful of the driver, she pinches his side and he squirms away, giggling. "But you're not playing it right."

"I'm so happy you're here, I could puke!", he exclaims, gesturing emphatically.

"Que-geum!"

"Honest. I think we best turn around and get back to that fountain. Oh! I forgot!" changing tacks with a jolt, he roots through his backpack on the seat next to him and solemnly produces a bottle of water.

"Here, you need to drink a lot after a long flight."

She eyes him and the bottle blankly, so he gives it an encouraging waggle and she accepts, biting down on what she knows would've been a beauty of an eye-roll. His right hand dives back into the pack and withdraws more items.

"I also have a banana and a muesli bar."

She grins into the neck of her water bottle.

"Is there a juice box, as well?"

"There is! But only because I didn't have it for lunch yesterday."

He delves into the pack once more, and when he returns with the item in question, she receives him with a smug smile and a mocking nod. He blinks, looks at her, at the school lunch in his hands and back at her before he starts laughing. "Yes. Okay. Point taken. Never mind."

He tosses the food over his shoulder onto the seat, and she gazes back, her own smile adding lines to the sketchy notes the past 40 hours drew around her eyes. It strikes her that she has had no idea just how much she's _missed_ him, still misses him, already misses him again, a fierce yearning lodged in her chest, the back of her throat, behind her eyes. He meets her gaze, rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands and then grins at her, nose all crinkled up, and settles back down. His leg stops jiggling at last and presses up against her side, warm and solid. The pinkie on his left hand quivers against the side seam of her jeans. Her bottle is flicked in the rough direction of his backpack so she can grasp his hand, pull it towards her resolutely until their hands rest in her lap. Her thumb massages his first knuckle, his grasp slackening and readjusting throughout, checking for her ongoing presence. Again. And again. She stifles a yawn against his shoulder. The taxi sways and the traffic noise drifts away while his head settles atop hers, grows heavier. His breath wafts over the worry lines on her forehead, slowing down down down until...

„¡Oiga!"

They sieve their liquid bones, he pays the taxi driver and hauls her duffle out of the boot. Into an apartment building with cast iron balconies, he leads her up a staircase, constantly glancing back at her as he trudges the steps. The air smells of chalky plaster and vinegar. On the second flight, she takes her attention off the relief tiles and instead focuses on the way his shirt drapes between his shoulder blades, on the third he catches her and pretends not to, on the fourth, he throws his head back and groans „Are we there, yet?".

At the very top of the building, there is a door with chipped powder blue paint and a sticky lock, and he puts his weight against the panel, executing a series of oft-rehearsed wiggles. When it swings open, he overbalances slightly and is thus spewed into his own apartment, duffle bag first.

He beckons her through the front door straight into a living area, a kitchen with an island to the right added like an afterthought. An unnaturally large TV screen rest atop a sideboard that doesn't quite hide nests of game controllers stuffed into its innards. Shoes are piled everywhere but in front of the door, and so she simply slinks in behind him, pulling off her too warm scarf and trench coat and folding them carefully across one arm of the couch before gingerly sitting down, herself. The moment her body touches the soft upholstery her lower back groans, and it is all she can do to stop herself from doing the same as she slumps into the backrest. Hastily kicking off her trainers, she stretches her legs before swinging them up onto the ottoman.

Meanwhile, Que-geum has made for the kitchen.

„Right," he opens the fridge: „I've got fresh milk and eggs - so there WILL be pancakes - and some pineapple and chocolate mousse, though not your favourite, because the Asia shop didn't have your brand but look, I bought some scallions don't even like scallions that much but they're there all.. scallioney, scallioning up the whole fridge maybe shouldn't have bought quite so many how many scallions do you need for an average scallion-involving meal probably not a whole bundle that was a bit stupid of me I'm almost out of fish sauce but that's okay because I can just nick some of Mum and Dad's when we go they get regular deliveries from a Korean food distributor I should probably look into setting up something like that maybe but really I'm mostly fine with Spanish food but then again they might carry Makgeoli..."

As he rants on, her conviction that he would burn himself out, and soon, wavers, to be replaced with concern. His eyes are bloodshot, and there is a tremor in his left hand that she can't quite pretend is all due to excitement anymore. She knows with absolute certainty that he has spent the last couple of days planning, plotting and rearranging to make sure everything is absolutely perfect for her, because that is what he does. Now her space commander is undeniably on his way to ramble himself into hyperspace and so she knows with equal certainty that he's in desperate need of comfort. Their mutual insecurities have fed on their separation and there remains an uncanny barrier between them, making her pleasure in his presence too much like missing him during the previous months, and she won't have it. He makes to open the french doors facing the sofa to start illuminating her on everything the light touches outside, and when his hands fumble with the door handle, her heart snaps.

„Enrique!", she emits.

Rattled, he turns to her, eyebrows up, rubbing his palms together, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

„Hm?"

She nods at the empty spot at her side.

„Come sit with me, Que-geum?"

He perks up. „Of course," he mumbles. „let me just..." he reaches for one half of the door and carefully cracks it open. Street noise drifts into the room.

There is a well-thumbed book on the side table next to her; its spine broken and pages dog-eared, a petal shower of sticky tags bursts forth from in between its pages. She picks it up and finds it's a Spanish-Korean dictionary.

He drags over and toes off his shoes one step at a time, lets them lie as they fall. Sitting down on her right, his left foot comes to rest pressed against hers on the ottoman. Smiling, he takes the dictionary from her hands and turns it over. The back cover has been glued to an accordion folder. He opens it and pulls out one of many folded A4 sheets, packed tight with a flowchart that is a jumble of scribbled words in Korean, Spanish and English. He hesitates, briefly, before he leans into her, deposits the book in her lap and holds out the chart in front of them. His chin alights on her shoulder.

„I am better at remembering things when I can visualise them." He explains. „I like... structure. And maps. When I first came here, I would draw worlds all day, and label them all in Spanish." He points a slender finger at the word at the top of the page. „See, „think" is the basic word. But then there's also „wonder", which is just a bit more intense, don't you think?" her eyes follow his finger as it wanders down the page, elaborating: „wonder" leads to „contemplate", which leads to „ponder", which leads to „mull" which leads both to „agonise" and „sulk". But „sulk" is also connected to „suspect"" his finger shoots back up an arrow to the top of the page. „Which goes back to „think" via „assume"."

While he talks, her right hand comes up to cup the side of his face on her shoulder. He leans more fully into her to improve the angle.

„it's a chain.", she says, appreciatively. „If - then; like a game plan. You've _planned_ your vocabulary."

„Is that weird?"

The question lingers in the room, like a whiff of school lunches in hair. She turns and presses her lips against the crown of his head. In response, he flexes his toes up against the sole of her foot.

„It's brilliant.", she insists. Eyes shut, he nuzzles her shoulder, and she shifts her hand to stroke the spot above his ear. He hums.

„Don't think I don't know what you're doing."

She smiles softly. „Hm, but it's working, isn't it?"

„_You _need to sleep. I should be taking care of _you_.", he whines.

"Oh, I've slept. Here and there. Maybe I'll have a coffee later. Or five."

He lifts his head off her shoulder to snarl at her. Her hand, knocked from its former resting place, comes to fiddle with his collar.

"I'm fine. I'm here." She jiggles his top button. "_Please_ try and relax. You're worrying me."

The snarl transitions into a pout while he lifts his feet off the ottoman, shimmies away a bit and then unceremoniously flops down into her lap, his body stretched out along the length of the sofa, a boneless arm slung across her knees. Already she thinks him asleep, until that same arm reaches back, blindly groping for hers. Having found its query, he takes her hand and places it back into the hair at the side of his head, giving her a sloppy thumb up when her fingers resume ghosting over his scalp.

„Sleep well.", she whispers. He hums, and is out.

Congratulating herself on the successful deceleration of a volatile boyfriend, her attention returns to the dictionary on the armrest next to her. While his breathing deepens, her thumb wanders margins littered with arrows, ticks, and exclamation marks, indicating years of use. Occasionally, an aggravated cartoon hobbles along at the bottom, and a plethora of jotted notes on used envelopes, coffee shop receipts and bus tickets tumbles out of the gutters when she turns the pages, the hangul on them in varied stages of distress. As per habit, she checks the editorial, and finds it to be a 2013 edition. The finger of her free hand hovers over the date and her gaze grazes on the sacked out heap of bones in her lap. Her parents had set her up for a lifetime of half-heartedness when they tore hers down the middle and left with a piece each. During days, then weeks, then years of harsh weather, the wind would howl in the cavity. It had ensured her teenage years to be an exercise in calculated risk taking rather than reckless abandon. Then, after even the wind had refused to pick her off the roof, she'd tried to shut her door against the storm.

Que-geum, of course, never did anything half-heartedly; that's how lonely boys become childhood geniuses, like becomes love, and a dictionary becomes a tattered stack of paper so he can speak his love. The way he'd tugged at the threads of her heart hadn't been tiny vibrations so much as great big pulls that tightened and strengthened it, like the tarp of a tent left unattended to; storm-proofing it.

Her hand briefly dips into the collar of his shirt, the same one he was wearing the night he'd moved into his cousin's living room. She thinks. Alright, she's pretty certain. It's a good shirt on him, after all. He stirs and flops towards her onto his back, the fingers of his right hand weaving into the hem of her long sleeve, still solidly asleep. Summer has tinted him a fading tone of terracotta, washing out into bronze where the light from the window bounces off his skin and picks out the copper of his hair. There is an exhausted pallor underneath his tan, however. She gingerly lifts his fringe off his forehead and firmly tells herself not to be selfish. One hand settling flat against his chest, her other reaches for one of the comic books on the side table to distract herself from his collar bone. Dragon Ball. In Spanish. Outstanding...

An hour later, a square of light thrown by the french doors has crept around the room and finds them, both asleep.

* * *

Chapter 1 of 3


	2. The fifty-year plan

As usual, massive thanks to my betas, Halfaslug and mswyrr. Also as a flaily wave at the entire tumblr fbnd meta squad in general and malariamonsters in particular.

* * *

She wakes to the low beams of sunlight that dapple the sofa and the wall behind it. She squirms and presses her eyes into the crook of her elbow, shielding them from the light.

Que-geum's voice crawls up her spine:

"On a scale from handful of grapes to roast hog: how hungry would you say you are?"

Reluctantly, she opens her eyes and finds him kneeling beside the sofa, face only a few inches away from her stomach, scrutinizing the general location of her belly button with a look of deep concentration..

"What on earth are you doing?"

With the sort of solemnity normally reserved for NATO security council meetings, he informs her:

"I've taken inventory. You'll be pleased to learn that you've retained all ten fingers and toes since I last saw you. Birthmark under your left - my right - eyebrow as well as worry wrinkle atop your right - my left - are still in place. You seem a bit tired and peaky, though. And when I say "a bit" I mean "a lot", that is: very. So what's our next step?"

"Nap.", she says resolutely, blinking against the sun. He grabs a throw pillow and uses it to keep the light out of her face. Her treacherous stomach growls loudly. "That's funny," he drops conversationally, "because your tummy here says it's pizza."

She grabs the pillow from him and burrows into it. "No." she moans. "Nap. Definitely nap."

The seat cushion shifts beneath her and his flank presses into her midriff as he sits. "We have to feed you, you know? Otherwise you'll just wake up in a couple of hours feeling all weak and nauseous." In a last shot at being petulant, she tries to curl up more tightly, but her knees hit his bothersomely solid form. He lightly taps her temple with his fingertip, twice, and she withdraws form the pillow and rolls onto her back with a put-upon air. He is hovering just above her, one hand on the back of the sofa, one on the armrest next to her face.

„Hi. It's not good for your jet-lag to sleep now." he smiles, trying and failing to look authoritative. She isn't quite sure whether he's aware that his close proximity is causing her motivation to leave the sofa, which was fairly low to begin with, to plummet into negative numbers. „We have – and I swear this is true – the BEST pizza in all of Madrid at the hands of the Cane family – wonderful people – just around the corner – I should know, I used to work there – and an amazing park another 5 minutes down the street." He scrunches up his face, deliberating „Weeeell, probably ten, considering we'll be veeeery slow, as we're both veeeeery sleepy." His thumb reaches to smooth out her crinkled eyebrow. „The walk will do you good, I promise. It's stunning out there right now."

„I quite like_in here right now_." Her fingers have found their way to the hand next to her head, up his forearm, and are now pushing back against the rolled up sleeve in the crook of his elbow. The sinews there twitch against her knuckles. He bends down towards her, brushing an infuriatingly light kiss against the corner of her mouth, and withdraws. She follows, pushing up on her elbows, but before she reaches her goal...

"Oh good, you're up!", and he twirls off the sofa into a standing position, meeting her indignant gape with a smug giggle. "Also: snap. Come on, let me feed youuuuu!" he wriggles into his shoes and heads towards the door to retrieve his backpack.

Dok Mi flops back down with an inarticulate grunt.

Backpack thrown across one shoulder, three impossibly bouncy strides have him standing over her. "Should I remind you of the 50-year-plan?" He adjusts the second shoulder strap and then bends over the armrest, cradling her head "Beautiful places. Great food. Gazing. Laughter.", he swoops down, each full stop a bumpy peck to her forehead. "Come on. Comeoncomeoncomeon."

She squirms and smiles. "Alright. Alrightalrightalright...", her appeasements transition into limp-wristed swats at his head when pecks turn into a raspberry blown lightly into her forehead. "YES, COMING!"

* * *

Dok Mi exits the pizzeria in an over stimulated haze, followed suit by Que-geum who is still tossing banter over his shoulder.

30 seconds into the restaurant, he was showered with kisses by the patriarch, engulfed in his wife's arms, and arm-punched by the young man working the wood stove. A teenaged girl in service attire pounced him from behind, laughing manically whilst seemingly intent on choking him. All of this took place under a cacophony of rapid-fire Spanish pouring mostly unchecked from five mouths simultaneously, propelled onwards by wild gestures, driven home by constant touching and jostling. Nothing ever slowed or tuned down for 15 minutes, when the family forced a bottle of white wine and two glasses onto them on top of their pizza and, swatting away Que-geum's wallet with an air of mortal insult, ushered them out the door. He waves back through the window at four faces grinning knowingly, before ushering Dok Mi further down the street, considerably worse for wear. "I apologise for that. I didn't mean to park you, but the Canes are a bit... demanding when in a high mood. And four of them at once. Uhm, take-aways from the conversation: they all agree I probably don't deserve you – there was a lot of variety on that theme. And you're very pretty. And I am to kiss you a l...", he halts, his entire frame stalled by an elephantine yawn. Hands full with pizza and wine, he angles his fly trap down into his upper arm. Mama Cane's attentions have left a smudge of pizza flour across his cheekbone, and whilst taking the wine and glasses from him with one hand, Dok Mi reaches up with the other to rub it off.

"You got something there, Enrrrique.", she says, trying to let his name roll off her tongue with the unfamiliar Spanish inflection.

Struck by inspiration, he nips sideways to kiss her wrist, and in the span of time it takes for his pupils to dilate, her mind has test-run 7 ways of dragging him back to the apartment by the scruff of his shirt. So, of course, her actual self drops her hand to loosely hook with his and tugs him onwards down the street. She turns her face into the sun spilling out of a side street, blushing. "Come on, I'm starving.", she says.

"I knew it! I'm so perceptive!", he hisses triumphantly. This time she makes sure he catches her eye-roll.

He was right. It is beautiful outside. Groups and tangles of people are spilling out of offices and apartment doorways into the balmy evening, carrying take-away food in business attire, casually dangling cigarettes from their mouths, loosening ties. They settle into chairs outside cafes and queues at corner shops. Conversation is low and lazy.

The two of them stop at a pedestrian crossing, waiting for green. Que-geum goes to nonchalantly lean against a lamp post, but he fumbles and slides past it with a look of sincere surprise at this turn of events on his face. The unexpected tug on her arm nearly sends Dok Mi toppling after him, but she manages to brace her weight and yanks him back from the mercifully empty car lane.

"Well, that's one point for the buddy system." he giggles. "That lamp looked shifty to begin with."

"That wasn't remotely funny."

He looks up at her from squinting at the lamp. "Oh yeah? Then why are you smirking?"

"Your face was a _bit_ amusing," she admits. "so... Disappointed with the world in general."

He curtsies. "Anything to please m'lady."

The signal ticks to green and they inch into the street. The back of her hand brushes against his hip as she lets him take the lead, trying to pull mental focus on the fuzzy edges of the day. The street markings in the centre lane seem to latch to her trainers and unexpectedly root her to the spot.

"Wait, what?" she creaks, pulling Que-geum to a stop two paces ahead of her. He turns around on abrupt momentum and looks at her bemusedly.

"Uhm... street?" he ventures, trying to catch her eye in between checking up and down the boulevard. The pedestrian signal goes back to to red.

"No, but wait," she says.

"Can't we wait on the sidewalk?"

Her eyes snap to his.

"_The fifty-year plan_?" she blurts out incredulously.

"What?"

Her mouth is set in a mildly peeved fashion. "Did you know that you talk without punctuation, appreciation or filters? And I'm left sieving these amazing things you've said four seconds and 14 thoughts ago, trying to organise them. _You said the fifty-year plan_." Agitated, she rubs her brow.

He nudges her elbow. "_Right-o_. Know what's a great place to have this talk? Anywhere but here."

Her hand drops from her face to tug at her sleeve and he can see that her mouth has graduated from peeved to pinched. "Don't avoid me on this." she squints, shifting her weight onto one leg.

"The only thing I'm trying to avoid are cars careening like wildebeests down this street we are standing in , Ahjumma," he quips, his free hand mimicking the trajectory of potential traffic.

She blinks. "Oh, right." Gaze down, she starts towards the sidewalk. "You can't just say such things," she mumbles. Que-geum jauntily hops up the curb behind her.

"I agree we've all been deeply traumatised by Mufasa's death, but it's been twenty..."

"Not that", she brushes over him with a jerky glance over her shoulder.

Now it's him who stops in his tracks.

"You know I'm not just saying that," he frowns at the back of her head. She turns around and he continues:

"It's real simple though I've put a great deal of thought into it. Contemplation. Mulling. In five decades' time we might want to re-evaluate our relative levels of decrepitness; make plans for man servants to carry our luggage or ourselves, allowance for old people points of interest, you know – swap delicious food for those horrible ginger and pistachio biscuits my grandmother liked so much. 50 years is an excellent amount of time to stick to the original plan." Whilst tattling, he has sidled up to her. "I am very serious about that plan."

She tucks a smile into his side.

Across the street and into the final alley, a tree line comes into view. Que-geum gestures ahead with their joined hands "Tadaa: El Retiro."

A group of students ushers past them with barbecues and blankets, textbooks jammed underneath their arms for alibies. The setting sun bounces off bottle necks in tanned hands and opened windows. At the entrance to the park, a woman in a pantsuit kicks off her heels before jogging up to her colleagues.

They make their way down a broad promenade, the sun in their eyes, before he tugs her off the path and across a green, passing through clusters of trees and people splayed on towels, straw mats and hastily shucked coats. Clouds of midges dance around tree trunks.

"You know, in cinematography, they call this "The Golden Hour". The first and last hour of sunlight in a day and BAM everything is drenched in this glorious quality of natural light. I mean, just look at the grass: sharp, dramatic contrasts - I read somewhere that the golden hour carves out every being's inner light. And look: everybody's flung about to catch the last rays. I love it."

"Ah, here's a question you'll like: which one do you like better: the golden hour or the blue hour?"

"Eh?"

"The blue hour is the last hour of daylight _after_ the sun has dipped below the horizon - or before it comes up - resulting in ambient lighting - which is tinted blue because of the angle of the rays as they hit the atmosphere ."

He scoffs. "You're gonna have to sell it to me a bit harder than with a passage from your old physics textbook. I mean, at least I had _inner light_!" She bristles as he leads her through a marble colonnade encircling a plaza. Past a towering column in the centre, sweeping stairs lead down to an artificial lake. He joggles her hand in his.

"Come on, describe it to me."

Dok Mi hands him back his scoff and briefly extends the arm not attached to him towards the sun, wine glasses and all, squinting. "I don't need to describe it to you. In less than 45 minutes, you can see it yourself." Catching his puzzled face, she elaborates: "Every finger you can fit between the sun and the horizon means 15 minutes until sunset. See? Give or take."

He sniggers. "Clever fingers," and lifts the hand in his to kiss them. "I like when you describe things to me," he pouts. Unfairly. She bumps his shoulder with hers.

"Cheater. Alright, here goes: The golden hour creates sharp contrasts, right? Well, the ambient light of the blue hour blurs the edges. It makes space for might. For the great perhaps. The day is coming to a close, decisions must be made for the night, plans forged or abandoned. It's like... slowing down before an intersection. Slowing down before everything. Breath held before a leap. Promise. Potential."

Dok Mi drops his hand and walks ahead down the stairs towards the water, taking in the four bronze lions atop plinths that section the staircase.

„So what, it's a time when nothing happens?" Que-geum calls, following her.

"Which is usually when everything happens. That's what makes it profound. It's transition made visible." She pauses four steps up from the pond, where the sunset has cut a slice out of the scenery, and looks back at him over her shoulder. "The critical mass of idle Tuesdays."

„You should write that down." he motions for her to sit. She settles down, back against the warm marble of the plinth, legs drawn up.

„I don't think that's mine."

It's his turn to roll his eyes at her and he makes the most of it before circling around her to sit one step down, cross-legged, with his knee brushing up against her hip

„_I_ think you'll find you're thinking wrong."

He flicks open the lid of the pizza box before him, separates the slices and unscrews the wine. "Change is good, then?"

She eyes him, accepts the glass he passes and deliberates for a moment. "Having an impetus for change, yes."

He stops pouring himself and catches her eye from underneath his fringe. And that is all that needs saying. She breaks eye contact and nods past him at the surroundings.

"So, is there a story to this place?"

He chuckles around a mouthful of pizza dough. "Not so much a story as a big ol' mess. Sort of. It's the monument to Alfonso the 12th, one of our many kings - as you can tell by the fact that he's the twelfth by his name."

Dok Mi nods. "I don't know whether it's quite regal enough, I only spotted six lions."

"Madam, I take it you only say that because you haven't spotted the mermaids, yet.", he replies, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder.

She snorts into her wine glass "Those make sense, they'd roam the great African plains together."

He cackles appreciatively. "Okay, you're going to love all this. So: Alfonso's mum commissioned this place - Austrian royal blood, I forget her name, and so over 20 years, she builds him a monument only a mother could love. Get this: not only do we have Alfie himself high on his steed." he gestures up the central column. "And the lions and mermaids. But there's also - brace yourself: "The Army" and "The Navy" back where we came from; "Peace", "Freedom" and "Progress" surrounding Alfonso's column; _and_ "Sciences", "Arts", "Agriculture" and "Industry" looking out onto the artificial lake with us.", his non-be-pizzaed arm flying this way and that as he indicates the corresponding bronze statues. "All of them by different sculpturers. And let me tell you: art direction wasn't very strong. The only thing that ties this together is the blind stabbing at neo classicism."

She smirks. "So, in essence, we're sitting at the centre of everything."

He nods excitedly. "ALL the things, ahjumma. Everything you could lavish onto a monument: we got it."

"You're right. This is... riveting."

He nudges the pizza box towards her. "Know what they could've used?"

She shakes her head around a mouthful of wine whilst reaching for another slice.

"A truly grrreat editor to tell them to cut the superfluous crap."

She scowls derisively. "I never said that."

"Not in so many words, no."

"I never implied that, either."

"Yeah, I wouldn't call gleeful red dashes across entire paragraphs an implication, either.", he shoots back, goading her.

"Gleeful? I've never..."

He nods vigorously, affirming his point.

"You've never seen your own face when your editing ditches words for sweeping marks. Gleeful."

Her eyebrows rise, full of scorn. "Okay. Sure. You _would_ know a thing or two about being gleeful."

"I am a much-wanted international authority on the subject. Now, if you just make sure you continue saving manuscripts from their own sprawl for years to come, I should be able to gather enough research to become the leader of the field. I've already got the title of my next research paper."

"Oh, this should be good. Please remember titles should be anywhere below half a page long," she deadpans.

He puffs out his chest "Comparative studies of snarky undertows in still waters."

"I'd get rid of the "comparative studies" bit. It's a research paper; it's implied." she shoots back without missing a beat.

"And there she goes proving my point." he tells the lake with a tilt of his glass. Dok Mi takes in his profile against the last minutes of the golden hour. This side of the trans-eurasian flight the journey seems ludicrously, indisputably worth it. She could shove this into a weekend simply to allow for further study of the exact curve of his neck. Not to mention the cartographic demands of that group of birthmarks around his shoulder blade. There's also a jar of affectionate gazes that needs curation. She settles back against the plinth behind her, legs drawn up, to catch up on her work. The warmth of the stone seeps into her back. She observes him make a production of splitting up the last of the wine exactly between their two glasses, only to shrug and slosh the lot together into one, and she woozily thinks that fifty years sounds like a good start.


	3. Rustling Leaves

Summary: "It's that reflex we have to pull what's warm – whether it's something or someone – toward us, that feeling we get when we do that, that feeling of being safe in the world and ready for sleep, that's happiness."

Notes: Well, this is it, the final chapter. Special thanks to my betas mswyrr, syolen and halfaslug; the FBND meta squad in general and malariamonsters in particular.

* * *

She is jolted when Que-geum plucks a piece of pizza crust from her limp fingers and returns it to the box. The sun has dipped below the horizon. He swipes excess flour off his hands with a lazy gesture, and then leans forward. Left hand snaking around her calf, he hooks his chin over the top of her angled knee, smiling gently.

"How are you feeling, Ahjumma?"

Dok Mi rubs her eyes and takes a sip from their glass, leaving flour prints all over it. The wine swigs lazy laps around the bowl. The stone at her back gives off a last feeble bit of residue warmth. Her bones are heavy from displacement. Exhaustion is making itself know via a buzz at the base of her skull. She takes in the artificial pond before her and the chestnut trees around its edge; the predictability of a group of teenagers on the other side of the monument doing unspeakable things to "Wonderwall" on an acoustic guitar, before returning her gaze to Que-geum – whose smile has transformed into what can only be described as a simper. He lifts his head off her knee and takes to nudging it with his temple by way of prompting her to answer. She feels extraordinarily woolly-headed, no telling whether that is due to exhaustion, wine, or him. She grins back.

"Perfect."

He takes the wine glass from her, fingers lingering atop hers, and empties its dregs. „That was the plan!", he gloats, chin returning to rest on her knee.

„And how are you feeling, Que-geum?"

Serene, he closes his eyes.

„_Incandescent_with contentment," he says, emphatically.

She narrows her eyes.

"This is most definitely cheating – pulling big words on me when I'm clearly not in a loquacious mood."

He frowns slightly and sits up to retrieve his phone, but she stops him with a nudge of her knee against his shoulder. "It means "wordy", "talkative".

He takes the word and runs with it.

"I think I am only _loquacious_in the sense of_ garrulous_," he says, over-enunciating his big words. "but you are more articulate and me… me… waitwait I know this one…"

She smiles quietly and watches him root around for the right word, all floppy hands and deep concentration. Then, with a yelp of discovery, he's back:

"_Mellifluous_! That's what you are: mellifluent." He looks out onto the water, shaking his head at himself. "Need to remember this better. Mellifluous, mellifluous, mellif..."

Enrique likes to tell himself that it's pretty hard to surprise him. After all, observation, prediction and planning are sort of his job and definitely firm legs to stand on. However, Dok Mi cutting him off with her hands fisted into his shirt collar to pull his lips against hers knocked all three of them out from under him. Not the kissing business as such - in fact, they had figured out fairly quickly that here was a team sport they excelled at. Nor her initiating... things – that one time at her place when he had found and slapped on her panda hat whilst she was in the bathroom – hand to god, he barely made it out alive.

But all the parameters are off: they are in a very public place, in the middle of conversation, and only coordinated enough to drink without spilling two out of three times. The stars aren't in position. But he's of course fully committed to taking one for the team. Making a mental note to find out what exactly made him deserve such attention, one of his hands shoots behind him to catch their weight and the other reaches for her waist as she advances further into his space. When her hands scoot from his shirt to the sides of his neck, he receives a partial answer in-between pecks dropped all over his face:

"I've missed you, I've missed you, I've missed you."

In response, he lets his arm curve further around her back. She continues the conversation by wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her face into its side.

"So much", she elaborates, her breath warm against his pulse. Her grip tightens and Enrique bemoans the necessity of using his other hand to keep their balance. "I know that", he says with the air of one stating the obvious.

"Yes, but somebody taught me that some things, sometimes, need saying," she mumbles into his collar.

He grins into her temple. There's a hint of ozone clinging to her skin. "Are you speaking trainer to me?"

She sits back on her knees, hands sliding around to rest on his chest.

"I think it's more accurate to claim we understand each other's elephant."

He gives this thought some straight-faced contemplation. "I do speak polar bear already, so that makes sense..."

Dok Mi nods sagely. "naturally."

His hand has slid from her back to the curve of her hip.

"I can't believe you beat me to the kissing. I was waiting for the right moment," he moans, tugging on the hem of her shirt. He sits up and starts counting off on his fingers: "When you came out of the gate was clearly one, any doofus can tell, but I was busy enough not barfing up my heart as it was, that is to say: I was incapable. Then when you pointed out the mortal threat of time-space cracks was another, but I thought at the time I was perhaps the only one drowning in an ocean - an _ocean -_ of emotion_._ Hah. That rhymes. Then the taxi when you gave me that one look; but the driver was there and I'd just talked about puking. Then pretty much every second at the apartment, but I didn't want you to think that's all I was shooting for. And then we had to eat and..."

Her hand drops to meet his.

"This has been torturing you all day, hasn't it?"

"Ahjumma, I'm a _wreck," _He groans, knitting his fingers around hers.

"You're a dummy."

"But I'm _your_ dummy."

Words delivered like a statement, the question is all over his face, right beneath a layer of levity. And so she sits up on her knees to reach out and frame his face with her hands in that way he likes to do with her at the slightest provocation. She prods him upright on his knees until his eyes are almost level with hers from his spot one step down before replying.

"Unequivocally, yes." Looking down into his eyes, she is reminded again how laughably easy it is, really, to make him this happy. And selfishly grateful no one else has bothered to learn this until now.

"I'll look that up later, because my incredible perception tells me we're having a moment and I don't want to ruin it," he quips. His eyes dance and she finds herself smoothing away his fringe again

"One might even say this is one of those _perfect_ moments, should one be waiting for one."

Que-Geum scoots closer, eyeing her. "That so?"

One of his hands is at the back of her knee, beckoning her closer. She gladly complies, inching forwards to the very edge of the step.

"Absolutely. Flawless, in fact. And very romantic. One couldn't plan it any better." Her right threads into the hair at his nape, causing a trail of goose bumps to vanish into his collar.

His hand has made its way up from the back of her knees to the small of her back. He wriggles in close, and the pull behind her sternum finally abates as it comes into contact with his.

"I think you're just stretching the facts to serve your own lowly pursuits," he chides, though the effect is somewhat lessened by the goofy grin on his face.

She yanks his hair, giving a frustrated noise at the back of her throat. He winces, snorts and closes what space remains between them to drop a careful kiss on a spot just underneath her ear

"– I've missed you..."

He covers the spot with his hand and moves on to her cheekbone –

"I've missed you,"

lingers on her forehead –

"I've missed you,"

skitters down the bridge of her nose –

"I've missed you."

and skims the corner of her mouth –

"so much."

She turns her head by a fraction and firmly keeps him from fluttering off again.

After a whole day of leaning in, this is where they arrive; the weather-beaten surface of the marble stairs prickling her knees through the fabric of her jeans and his thumb circling its home laps around the joint of her jaw. He tastes of pizza, wine, and burnt waffles for breakfast in a holiday home by the sea outside of Seoul.

When they pause, on of his knees has vrawled onto her step, and his shirt tails have come untucked. Loathe to pull away, he aimlessly nuzzles her face, provoking a chuckle.

"Your rain barrel's flattened out," he murmurs into her forehead. Dok Mi catches his eyes, intrigued.

"My what?"

He brushes his knuckle against the spot.

"The worry wrinkle on your right – my left – eyebrow. That's where all your excess emotion goes. It's a tiny little thing gathering drizzle from a pretty massive roof, so it's not very precise and overflows quite often, but at least I'll know something's drumming your mind whenever it does. Your rain barrel."

It takes her languid mind a few moments to connect the dots of his laboured metaphor.

"When you're overwhelmed, your eyebrows go lopsided," she counters.

He is delighted. "I did _not_ know that. Must've looked like a Dreamworks lead character to you all day."

"When I was 12, I read a lot about strokes and how to recognise them early..." she offers with a pensive voice and a barely contained smirk.

"... GOD, you're mean when you're exhausted," he guffaws as he rolls off his knees and slides up beside her. She sits back and unfolds her legs to meet him.

"But they're all better now, your eyebrows," she says.

"I thought they would be," he replies before ducking his head to fit himself into the crook of her neck.

He's warm, soft, almost pliable with his usual buzz siphoned off.

"This is nice," she says quietly.

"Hm."

"Que-geum?"

"Hm?"

"Why the anxious asymmetrical eyebrows all day?"

She expects him to deflect the question. Instead, he presses more firmly against her side and hooks his ankle around hers.

"Because I was terrified something would go or feel or be horribly wrong. But everything's really gone back to being right. Like... when you put on your 3D glasses and all the disconnected layers on the screen slide together and into focus. And depth."

The words topple over her collar bone and sink into her chest, rustling the leaves of a tree he had planted there earlier. She slips her phone from her pocket and starts typing. He perks up and places his chin on her shoulder.

Are you writing that down? You're making me blush."

She smiles. "No, I'm writing down something of my own." She hastens a peck against the side of his mouth that favours his snarl to nip all pouting in the bud. „But you made me think it."

His hand flops in a quarter-hearted fist pump. „My pleasure. Make sure you also write down that ‚idle Tuesdays' line from earlier."

She does, trying her best to ignore his warm breath against her neck.

So he resorts to grinding his jaw into her shoulder. "Hey, Ahjumma? Ahjummaaa-ha-haaa?"

She looks up to find him leering at her like the cat that belly-flopped into the cream.

"Does that mean I'm your _muse_?", he sing-songs. „I could be a great muse. The _best_ muse. I'm totally your muse. Should I get some skimpy silk clothing? A loosely tied sarong, maybe?"

„Unbelievable," she deadpans before turning back to her phone to finish her paragraph.

He is knocking his knee against hers, now. „Just think of the possibilities," he teases.

„I am. You could trip, catch fire, catch a cold – which could spiral into a kidney or bladder infection – mustn't trifle with those."

Notes taken, the phone slides back into her jeans pocket. "You could make me tea, though," she offers consolingly, touching her forehead against his. The tight muscles in her back give way to a brief shudder, which jumpstarts him into immediate action.

"Are you cold? It's getting cold. Wait, I've got a hoodie..."

Of course he does. He's already crawled halfway across her on the shortest route to his backpack before she can interfere.

„Nonono, hush. I'm alright. Just exhausted," she says, hand on his shoulder to guide him back into a sitting position.

„Well, we should get to bed," he says.

She steadfastly tries not to react to his choice of words. For at least a second and a half. Which is all anyone can do, she tells herself when she throws him a sardonic brow. With magnificent results: Colour rises up his collar and into his cheeks with the swiftness of scalded shrimp.

„That is _not_ what I meant. I would _never_!" And now he looks very much like he's slapped himself, eyes wider and more alert than they've been all day. „NO. WAIT. I DON'T MEAN THAT, EITHER I MEAN I would _always_, I mean…" flustered hands flap about in time with his pupils, actively scouring the landscape for a good spot to turn around. „WILL YOU _PLEASE_ SHUT ME UP?!"

And she wants to. And she would. It's just that the laughter rumbling around her belly is so much stronger just now, and it finally squeezes past her face-splitting grin as the bastard love child of a snort and a giggle. But at least the sight of that allows for most of his blush to migrate into the tips of his ears, and she manages to extend one hand, so he eagerly takes the invitation for a hug and parks his forehead on her shoulder, smirking.  
"I meant for sleep. Sleep sleep," he whinges two beats later, which only sets her off anew.

„I know," she presses out with some effort „But your _face_..."

He pulls back, grinning with her. „I'm glad you're pleased."

„I am," she nods enthusiastically. „So very pleased."

"As I _said_," he casts over her attempts to calm herself. „we'll sleep sleep together. If we want to. Not that we have to. I'm saying we don't have to anything. But we can. But it's very likely we sleep sleep, seeing as you clearly have the two o'clock giggles and I can't be trusted with my own tongue... oh, _COME ON_!" he exclaims indignantly when fresh peals of laughter have her eyes water.

She does her best to gather, biting her tongue, hand pressed against her mouth. Despite his affronted air, she can feel him drinking in the sight of her. Bumbling his words might be; his gaze is quite eloquent on its own. He presses on while she mirthfully keens into her palm.

„Sleep sleep. That's nice, too. Great, in fact. You like that. Right? If you want to… we don't have to, obviously, if you don't… I have sheets and everything prepared for the couch, so that was my initial idea."

Her face falls instantly alongside her hand. "It was?"

He scowls. "Well, I was quite honestly making sure we could go either way, because it's been forever and I didn't want to assume, and because making you happy makes me happy, but now I feel like an ass!"

Throughout the rant, his voice progressively spiralled into what even the most lenient observer would be hard-pressed to call anything but a whine. The impression is accelerated by him flopping back onto the shallow steps, and preceding to twitch like a petulant child.

"And now I've _shouted_ at you," he groans with the heels of his hands pressed against his eye sockets in frustration.

She waits out a final irritated kick of his foot - which arrives like clockwork - before addressing the issue at hand.

"You've „shouted" at yourself, and we both know it," she casually remarks, unable to hide the amusement in her voice. The observation only prompts another grumpy mumble from him, and she decides that now is a as good a time as any to give him a talking-to that has been six hours coming. She scoots up two steps and peels his hands off his face. Elbows resting firmly on his chest, she leans in, effectively pinning him down with her slight weight and firm gaze.

"I feel like I have to make something very clear, because it seems to me you are labouring under a misconception," she says with slow deliberation.

Que-geum breaks eye contact, pouting

"Look who's not feeling wordy." he mumbles.

"Look at me," she scowls. Sulkily, he complies.

"I wish you didn't feel like you have to make yourself worthwhile. You've done the shopping and had your hair cut and exiled your flatmate and upgraded my ticket" – she interjects a glower – „and saved up your holidays and made that recording, and that's very sweet, that's very you - and I love it - but then you forego sleep and god knows what else and that worries me. I can't have you take care of me if that means you're not taking care of you."

"It's the least I could do," he replies, nonplused.

"You're my favourite person. You don't have to _do_ anything to deserve that. It's lovely when you feel like it. But when you give yourself a hard time over it, that makes me sad. It's just me. I am not going to pack my bags because you didn't get any raspberry jam."

„That's good, because I bought strawberry."

„Oh for... are you going to be there for breakfast with me?"

„Yes."

„Good. Perfect. Best breakfast in 7 months."

„More like a year," he insists, his nose wrinkling at the indignity of it all.

She leans down to kiss it.

„And for the record," she concludes. „I love sleep sleeping with you."

She starts pushing away, but he glances the backs of her elbows with his hands and holds her gaze.

„Can I say something now?" he whispers.

Dok Mi nods.

„First of all: It's not „just you". It's _you_. I think we have to have a veeery serious talk about what exactly that means, Ahjumma."

Her gaze drops to where her indexfinger is fiddling with the corner of his shirt collar.

"Alright. Thank you. But I don't want to be a burd..."

"You're _not_ a burden," he interrupts decisively. „You're never... Ahjumma, you're the farthest thing from a burden." The fingertips of his right hand brush lightly against her ribs. „You're a privilege. That I am selfishly enjoying. So there. Secondly: It's not like I didn't sleep to make the tape. I couldn't sleep, so I made the tape. I was SO excited for you to get here - I don't know whether you've noticed, but I am a teensy bit excitable sometimes. I couldn't wait to talk to you - so I didn't. And I wanted you to be happy. And I wanted you to be safe. And I didn't want you to be alone."

"And you wanted to be impressive," she adds shrewdly.

Que-Geum shrugs in acknowledgement.

"That, too. And I was, right?"

Through the park and across the grassy lawns, their steps are heavy with impending sleep, their centre of gravity further compromised by uneven ground and the need to orbit each other. Her fingers keep straying to his dangling shirt tails; his brush up against the small of her back or the notch of her shoulder blades, engrossed in the absence of layers. At the pedestrian crossing he accidentally-on-purpose walks into her and sneaks a peck onto her crown in the commotion.

The street lights come on two turns from his apartment. He halts on a corner and leaves her next to one with exuberant moths circling overhead to duck into a small deli.

"Two seconds," he says. Then, on the shop's threshold, he turns around, a single finger in the air. "One," he mouths.

She leans against the streetlight, comforted by the distant rumble of car tires on cobblestone. The evening breeze has picked up a bit, blowing away from the park. The chime of the shop's doorbell is dissonant against the rustling leaves above her and she looks down to see him with a sheepish look on his face and a jar of raspberry jam in his hand. She pushes away from the lamp post and spreads her open palms at him in disbelief, staring pointedly at the offending product. It's a chaff mostly wrapped around exasperation, while she contemplates throttling him. Pacifyingly, he drops his gaze and lifts his free hand.

"I know. I know," he cedes dramatically, "but can we move any plans of killing me too tomorrow? I'm too tired to get properly involved"

She casts a furtive glance up and down the street before hooking a finger into one pocket of his khakis. He swivels around to face her, and she secures him in place with her free hand fastened into the material of his shirt.

"So long as you _do_ know," she scowls and gives him the tiniest of shakes for emphasis.

He answers her stern gaze with a lopsided smirk.

"I sense the ghost of a "you dumbass" at the end of that sentence."

"Your words, not mine," she says.

This time she informs him of her intentions by tugging at his shirt before kissing him briefly.

"Hi," he grins yet again when she pulls away, and quickly trails her for a second peck. Then he reaches around his own back for the hand still dangling from his pocket, and pulls her arm around his waist. Clasping her hand, he turns them towards home.

She is in the shower, and he changes into the pyjama bottoms and ratty mid-ninetees Disneyland Paris tshirt he's carefully selected four nights earlier for their perfect level of familiarity and softness of cotton before turning his full attention towards the bed. Fresh sheets have already been installed, so he smoothes down the blanket with a beady eye and then decides to turn it down, finds the price tag that came off his khakis that morning on a pillow and transfers it into the waste under his desk, _then_ decides the blanket is not turned down at a perfect angle so that needs careful tugging; chiefly because if he doesn't concern himself with the last, most minute details within his control, he's probably going to suffer cardiac arrest from all the completely unfounded excitement because it's not like they haven't slept together before... in many ways. ALL the ways, really. Well most of the ways. Is there a way to quantify the ways? Probably. Likely. Definitely. Totally. Not gonna happen. NOT gonna play bingo. People are weird. And yet no matter how often he tells himself to calm down as there is absolutely no reason to get riled up he simply doesn't and suddenly this strange outside-looking-in perspective on himself gives him a whole new vista on the paternal grumpy benevolence that was the background noise to every good event in his life and is that dirt on the pillowcase.. no, just some lint. Water. They're going to need water. He dashes out of the room for the kitchen to fill a glass from the tap for her side of the bed. What is her side of the bed? Does she have one? There has been a wild disregard for just about any sleeping orientation conventions every time they shared a double, and in her bed you couldn't really speak of sides so much as layers, and fluid ones at that. So what to do with this stupid glass, now? The water in the shower's stopped and he can't help but listen to the domestic sounds of her presence. The noise of something cluttering down into the sink mingles with one of those exasperated tiny squeals that pass for swearing most of her days, which gives him not so much butterflies as what feels like a fully matured chestburster of fuzzy feelings. The blow dryer roars into life and alerts him to the fact that he's been stuck beaming in the general direction of the bathroom for no one knows how long. So he snaps back into action to see to the glaring inadequacy of the amount of pillows against the headboard in his pursuit of calm.

When Dok Mi enters the bedroom, she finds him straining towards the top shelf of his wall wardrobe, grinding out low-impact threats towards a pillow wedged there. The books she dumped on the bed whilst rooting through her bag for a shirt to sleep in have been carefully stacked to one side, topped with her paper journal and phone.

"The speed with which you shower is super-human. Next time, I'll race you against a soft-boiled egg," he says, back turned, still engaged in his stand-off with the pillow. Reflecting on the feathery soft mountain range already awaiting on his bed, she uses an opening when both his arms are raised to duck in for diversionary tactics.

Arms unfurling across his stomach, she molds herself close against his back, drops a kiss on his nape and her cheek onto his shoulder blade.

"Hi," she says. He sways and makes to turn around, but she produces a dissenting hum and squeezes tighter, so he contends himself with aligning his arms over hers whilst she grows heavier against his back. He taps what he remembers of the moonlight sonata into her finger bones and concludes it was a good thing he pouted his parents into submission about letting him give up the piano. His breathing calms considerably as it synchs with hers, the ebb and flow smoothing out the kinks in his mind. His heart skitters towards her hands when they press firmly against his chest and stomach. "This is so much better," she says woozily after a while. He can sense the vibrations of her voice against his backbone; the weight of her slackening arms has begun to drop into his palms.

"Than what?" he asks.

Her answer drags over the ridge of his shoulder laboriously, punctuated by the shudder of a suppressed yawn "'nything I can come up with just now."

"Careful, that's almost a hyperbole, and "those make your argument weaker not stronger, especially if you use 13 of them in a single chapter," he says in a falsetto voice, "and for the last time switch off the bathroom light!"

She splays the fingers of her right hand, and he threads his through them.

"Memory like an elephant, this one," she mumbles.

He beams and shrugs lightly against her cheek. "Bed?"

No answer. He twists to peek over his shoulder.

"Ahjumma?"

"...think I used your shower gel on my hair..."

He snorts, "That's a yes."

With a firm grip on her hands, he shuffles backwards until they hit the edge of the bed. Dok Mi reluctantly peels her arms off his torso and he scrambles to hold open the covers for her.

"Got a glass of water right here and so's your phone and your books and your bag is there under the window and you know where the bathroom is obviously and... is there anything else you need?" he blurts over her huff.

She eyes him from her position against his headboard, arms crossed in front of her Velvet Underground tshirt; it's easily the best thing he's seen all day. Week. Month. Year. Which is exactly what he tells her.

"Que-geum?" she replies.

"Yyyup?" He jauntily pops the word and immediately regrets it.

"Bed."

He scratches the back of his neck bashfully and drags around the bed to gingerly climb underneath the covers.

"Finally," she groans as soon as he's drawn up his legs, pre-empting his progression towards the centre of the mattress by uncoiling into his lap. Another item on his ever-growing list of reasons to resent the entirety of the Eurasian landmass. Later. For now, his auto pilot has him curl up around her, only noticing the flat object under his elbow when the screen at the foot of the bed jumps to life to slice through the quiet with the whining of Flounder the fish. And her snort.

"In my defence," he mumbles into her ear "this IS the best Disney film of the eighties."

"Tell me why," she says.

He leans over further to catch her eye, his finger halting on the remote he's fumbled from in-between the sheets. "Really?"

She nods. "Really. Because I like Dumbo more."

"That's from the forties, Ahjumma. The _forties_," he mouths, with indignation bordering on personal insult.

"See," she says as she turns sideways and pushes his knees back down to clear her view of the screen. "I know nothing. Tell me about it."

He casts a puzzled glance at the screen. "How about we just… sleep. We can watch a different film every night for the next two weeks if we feel like it. Mornings, too."

"I want to fall asleep knowing you're there," she says in a small voice.

And he's off:

"People say that Disney took all the edge off the story, made it boring, took out the jeopardy and the darkness, and that Ariel is being demeaned. All true, but we're going to kill the author and not get into that. BUT I love Eric's arc. I mean, If we're being quite honest, that man is an idiot; she saves him from drowning, and he falls in love with her voice - that's a reallyreally dumb thing to fall in love with, don't you think? Her singing voice, I mean. It's almost a physically feature - not that there's anything wrong with loving physical features, but that is a result of love, isn't it? Not the reason. I mean: a voice can't talk. Well, it can, but you know. It's like me looking at your pinky finger and thinking "Now, THAT I would like to take to the zoo."."

Dok Mi scoffs.

"What?" he lightly jostles her head with his leg. „Ahjumma, you have two very pretty pinkies. They tie in nicely with the rest. Probably the best pinkies in all the land."

"I like this part," she says, nodding at the screen. He leans back and quietly watches her watch Scuttle explain the dinglehopper. His hand is on its way to snatch his phone from the night stand and sneak a photo when her voice drags him back into the moment.

"How was your day, Que-geum?"

His hand goes to comb the ends of her hair, instead.

"Couldn't have been better."

"That was the plan."

"Oh, there was a plan?" He changes tacks to stroke tension out of her trapezius muscle. "Top marks for execution, Ahjumma. Ten out of ten – would desperately long for again." He finds a new appreciation for the real-life applications of anatomy and life drawing classes via her contented hum when he massages the cluster of muscles at the base of her skull.

„Don't think I don't know what you're doing." Her words have grown fuzzy around the edges.

He rubs light circles around her temple.

„Hm, but it's working, isn't it?"

She nods towards the screen.

"Go on."

With his eyes on the cadence of her breath in her shoulder, he continues.

"Okay, so: he falls in love with this mystical woman and her magical voice of wonder, because: don't ask me. Beats me. No reason. And of course, the sea witch takes away Ariel's voice, and so poor Ariel is plunged into a strange world she only ever gazed at from afar, unable to talk to anybody and without that thing that both Eric and her think he loves, and she just goes for it. So now oblivious Eric here gets to properly earn her love. „But Que-geum," I hear you frown aggressively. „What is so special about Prince Charming riding in to save the day?" and I will say that his arc is finished long before he steers that ship through Ursula. His struggle is not in slaying the dragon, saving the damsel, duelling the competition: He has to prove himself worthy of her by loving her for what she is: not the singer of his dreams, nor the mysterious mute, but the chaotic, funny, barefoot girl who takes his carriage on a rampage. He swaps this fantasy he was chasing for the reality he might have. Of course, we're only halfway through the film by that point and Ursula shows up and ruins everything, as witches do, but that's your third acts for you. And also they defeat her together and I think I just like that everybody gets to be happy at the end...

Ahjumma?"

"Hmmm?"

"Ahjumma, are you asleep?" he lightly runs his index finger down the side of her neck.

"Hmm."

His hand comes to rest, the pads of all four fingers flat against her neck, his thumb stroking back and forth at her nape. He leans forward and over her to check her face. Acknowledging that you're in way to deep if you conclude that the person of your affections can totally pull off the slack-jawed look of imminent drool, he gently smoothes away her hair and breathes a goodnight kiss across her cheekbone. She sighs. He smiles. "Good. I'll see you tomorrow. And the day after that, and the day after that, and the day after that, and the day after that, and the day after that, and the day after that, and the day after that…"

Prattling quietly, with minimum cooperation on her side, he pulls the covers up against the small of her back, then settles down lower into the cushions, carefully transferring her head from his lap to his chest. She twists her body into his. Waves of her hair obscure his view of the ship wreck.

"There he goes, the fool. Any minute, now." he mumbles as he turns down the volume by three bars. His left hand drops the remote, reaching upwards to brush against the fingertips of the hand she's slung across his mid-riff. One of her feet wedges itself between his calf and the mattress.

"Dok Mi?" he whispers.

"...hNggn?"

"Sleep well."

Her grip tightens by a whisker. "'love you, too," she replies. "very, very much."

While he traces wave patterns into the shell-coloured skin of her forearm, they drift off.

He wakes on his side, forehead pressed against her jaw, knee atop her hip. The blue light seeping in through the window is shattered into shades of the very early morning. His first conscious breath is filled with her and he presses a subconscious kiss to the warm crook of her neck, contemplating breakfast. Her fingernails rake down the back of his scalp, lightly, and breakfast slips his attention when she arches towards him.

He rubs his nose along the cut of her jaw and grins against her pulse.

„Good morning."

She presses her mouth against his temple.

„The best."

The End

* * *

Notes: AN: My special and warmest thanks to my two main betas, mswyrr and Halfaslug for their great help and assistance, and a tip of the hat to the whole meta squad over on tumblr. You know who you are (to know of the meta squad is to be of the meta squad) and I thank you kindly and apologise profusely for never. shutting. up. about this. And for the random paragraphs I pelted you with. This is a group effort, really.


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